The Lady Doth Protest Too Much
by Wingtip
Summary: Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.
1. The Art of Avoidance

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

**Title:** The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

**Summary:** Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

**Genre:** Romance, drama, some comedy

**Rating:** T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

**Other Warnings:** OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

**The Lady Doth Protest Too Much**

"_Character develops itself in the stream of life"_

_~Johann Wolfgang van Goethe~_

"_In time we hate that which we often fear"_

_~William Shakespeare~_

Chapter One

The Art Of Avoidance

The sun seemed brighter, streaming through the glass window-door and past the open curtains. It hit the dark wood floor in a square patch, and caught little slivers of dust that were floating in the air. The sunlight that found its way in was the small room's only light source during the day. Through a candle sat in the fat, golden candlestick on the desk, it showed distinct signs of being unused.

The whole room, in fact, seemed untouched.

When one entered, they found themselves in the center of the room. The walls were white, clean as if just scrubbed. The floor was made of dark wood, and so was the low ceiling, which had thick beams running across it. Directly across the door was the window, with pressed yellow curtains and glass doors, and beneath this was a dark wooden desk, on which sat a few neatly piled books, an orderly stack of parchment, a beautiful pewter inkwell and a white quill, and finally, the aforementioned candlestick. To the room's left was a vanity, with an elaborate looking-glass. Though its surface had on it pots and jars of powders and paints, a porcelain jug and bowl for water, and a wooden comb, they all were so pristine one could hardly imagine them being used. There was also a wardrobe, of the same dark wood as the other furniture. It was closed, but inside lay only folded shifts, shoes lined in perfect order, and ironed dressed of the latest non-distinct fashions.

Perhaps the only sign of the room's inhabitant was the bed. Though tidily made, with white sheets covering the horsehair and wool mattress and two white blankets, one of the down pillows bore the slightest indent, as if it had been fluffed after being slept on by one with a particularly light head.

That was the physical mark Lírien had left on Rohan; an indent on her pillow.

Socially, her mark had been more heavy-handed.

She was the Granddaughter of Lady Brictiva, cousin of Thengel, her appearance was Rohirric, though her hair was browner from her Gondorian blood, and her eyes grayer. And yet it was plain to anyone who saw her that she did not belong in Rohan. She, like their King's bride, was a Gondorian, born and bred in Dol Amroth, but unlike the Queen, she was not quick to adapt to the culture. Some of the court thought this was because of the fact that she had no husband who she loved who make things easier, but most thought it was due to her high-strung, overly polite, overly exclusive nature.

Upon entering the city for the first time, her nose had crinkled at the smell of manure, mixed with the sweat of hard-working men. She had sat uneasily on her horse, more used to delicate mares than the large creature she had ridden. She had pulled her skirts away from the dogs and refused to dance to any of the traditional Rohirric music, instead only dancing to the slow music that was not overly popular among the court.

Her distaste for Rohan had done her few favors, for the women of Rohan had responded to her in turn. They spoke to her only as much as was politely required, and avoided her at all other times. They giggled when she failed to do something as simple as know how to properly saddle a horse. They discouraged their brothers and relatives from dancing with her and sidetracked any man who seemed to be on his way to her. And, though none could confirm it, there was a general thought that one of them had been she who encouraged a young stable boy to sneak a large spider into her wreath when the court went out to the gardens.

It was from this startling incident the Lírien returned to her room, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and teeth clenched in anger. She was sure it was Leodæg who was responsible, but it could have been Wyverun or Eadwine. She doubted it was Brìd, for while that girl hated her, she was not one to resort to hiding spiders in flowers; her schemes were always more cutting than mild shame.

The room, heated by he afternoon sun, was stuffy and warm. Lírien walked to the window and carefully opened it, and lay the wreath on the sill. It had been too beautiful to drop, even after an eight-legged, hairy beast came crawling out from it. Then, she sat and pulled a piece of parchment to her, attached a nib to her quill, dipped it in the ink, and proceeded to not write a single word.

How did one write a letter begging of their father to arrange a betrothal for them? It was not an easy subject to breach. Besides, she knew her father would go straight to Lord Lomon of Lebennin, and that was not a prospect she wished to entertain.

After the death of her intended in the War of the Ring, she had remained unattached out of respect- not only for the man who would have been the Steward of Gondor, but for her good friend. And yet now she was nineteen, the oldest unengaged woman in Dol Amroth. In Rohan her predicament had not stood out, as women traditionally waited until they were in their twenties to marry, but back home it had become painfully evident that she had no husband; perhaps that was why her father had agreed to send her here. To make her seem less pathetic.

Lost in her reverie, Lírien did not notice that a horse had approached her window until it was gnawing on her flowers.

She gave a startled shout, pushing back in her chair. The stallion was white, speckled with gray and with large, brown eyes. It's snout was half in her window, nibbling on the wreath. She could not see if the horse had a rider, for its body was obscured by the wall, but she suspected it did.

A low chuckle confirmed this.

"You should not have so much grass in your wreath; every Rohir knows it will simply attract trouble."

Lírien was surprised by how much she liked the voice; low, gruff, yet friendly and with a hint of humor in it. His words were also pleasant, somehow they were clipped and to the point without being rude.

"I... I am not a Rohir." _Oh, how tremendously clever of you, Lírien,_ She thought to herself.

"Yes, you demonstrated that with your wreath."

"In all fairness-"

"We would certainly want that." Was he _mocking_ her? He would not be the first, but it stung no less. She straightened her shoulders and threw her chin up, pressing her lips into a thin line before speaking.

"It was _given_ to me. I did not make it myself, but I _do_ find it quite lovely, so I would appreciate it if your horse would stop eating it."

The man laughed, a throaty sort of laugh that made her cheeks flame.

"Who gave it to you? They must not like you much."

"No, they do not. It came accompanied by a spider." She did not know why she was revealing her most recent chagrin to a stranger whose horse was eating her plants, but something about a voice that was friendly seemed to disarm her; perhaps because it was so unusual these days.

"That is unfortunate indeed."

"Now, if you would be so kind, I would like some of my wreath to be left outside of your horse's stomach."

"Then I recommend you move it, for my horse seems hungry and I am enjoying this conversation."

Again, her cheeks flamed, and she was at a loss for how to respond, thankfully, she had no need, for he continued to speak.

"And while I do ride his, Swifthoof is by no means my horse. I am more his human. You truly are not a Rohir, are you?"

"I am from Dol Amroth, and there humans are the possession of none. Not even horses."

"Do not say that as if it is an awful thing; there is nothing better than being a true rider and having absolute trust between yourself and the creature who bears you."

"I would not know; I prefer boats to horses, for that is what _I_ know."

"Boats? I get sick when I step foot in one, even on land."

She shrugged her shoulder, and was glad he could not see; it was an improper gesture to make.

"You must go sailing in Dol Amroth, and even you will enjoy it. When the wind is just so and the water blue as the sky, so that you cannot tell which is which... it is a dream" her voice drifted off wistfully at the thought, and again his chuckle pulled her from her thoughts.

"And you must try to ride. If you go down to the stables later today, there will be someone to teach you."

"I cannot, I must return to the picnic. I was granted only momentary leave by Lo- by the Queen- to gather my nerves."

"Then come tomorrow, or even in a few days. There will be a way for you to learn discreetly."

"I... will consider it."

"Do so. But now, I must go. Swifthoof is getting hungry."

"Goodbye," she said, watching as the rest of the horse rode past; but all she saw of the rider was a well-muscled leg in well-fitting trousers.

Suddenly, returning to the picnic seemed an even less appealing prospect. And her wreath- it had been eaten in its entirety.

She would certainly have a word with this rider.


	2. The Truth of Matters

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

**Title:** The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

**Summary:** Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

**Genre:** Romance, drama, some comedy

**Rating:** T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

Other Warnings: OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

**Notes:** Thank you for the reviews!

**The Lady Doth Protest Too Much**

Chapter Two

The Truth of Matters

Contrary to what she told the rider, Lírien did not return to the picnic. Lothíriel would be upset with her, but she did not care. She simply asked a handmaiden to inform the Queen that she was not feeling entirely alright and then stayed in her room, leaving only once to request a loaf of bread and butter which she took in her room.

She pondered for a long time. Before being interrupted by a horse, she had considered begging to return home, to the stone walls and sandy shores of Dol Amroth. She could always ask Amrothos to marry her; she knew he would agree, as his father was threatening a wedding to Lady Barien of Lebennin if he did not settle down, and it was better to be married to a friend than to a monster.

What good came of her being in Rohan? Lothíriel did not need her here, like she had claimed before moving. No, the queen was content with her new Rohirric friends, and disapproved of everything Lírien did. No, there was no longer any reason for her to stay here; were she to return, none here would miss her and she was certain she could arrange for a husband.

She was about to sit down and write out her letter when someone rapped at her door.

"Come in," she called.

The door opened and standing there, looking very much upset, was Lothíriel. Her hair was parted down the middle, as was the fashion of Rohan, and no loner held the wave from the sea air that was the marker of Dol Amroth's women. Her dress was green and gold and looked heavy, and a circlet sat on her head, small knots carved into it.

"I gave you a moment to repose, not to run off and hide!" she exclaimed when she closed the door.

"I am not hiding. I am simply not going to return." Lírien had argued with Lothíriel many times over the years; more so in the last few weeks than ever before, true, but she still knew how to handle the situation. She just had to make the Queen mad enough to say something she would regret.

"And why not?! You are not improving things for yourself, Lírien!"

"Pardon me for not wanting to be paraded as the court jester for all to laugh at, Lothíriel. It is not my fault if these _people_ you have befriended think it amusing to dislike me!"

"They would not think it so were you not pouring oil into the blaze! They would try if only you would!" her voice was pleading, her gray eyes wide like those of a doe, and Lírien felt a stab of guilt in her stomach. But the only way to win an argument in which you were wrong was to twist your opponent's emotions around your fingers and pull, and so she did.

"So the fault is on my shoulders alone?" she was beginning to see the flickers of real anger in her friends eyes, and so she pushed further, "Only _I_ am to blame for this mess? I did not realize it was my fault I do not respond well to a culture like this, or to a city where dung is left on the streets to rot in the noonday sun! Perhaps I should just-"

"I am merely saying it would help if you would not act like _quite such a bitch_!"

The room fell silent. It was good all other resident's of Medusled were out of the city, for they would have heard otherwise. Both girls were staring at each other, and it was impossible to tell who was more alarmed; Lírien, who had not expected her words and her sentiments to become quite so entwined, or Lothíriel, whose hand covered her mouth and who looked as if she had stabbed a child.

"Lírien, I am sorry, there is not excuse-"

"If the queen says I am being a bitch, then I must be the inexcusable one, no? Forgive me, _highness_, I did not realize that your request I come here with you included a clause to force me into happiness. I did not realize that the Queen ordered a smile as I parted from everything I know and love and come to this- the _place_- for which I have no affection and even less care. I must beg for pardon, I suppose, for not being cheerful to simply _serve_ you. Forgive me, my _Queen_, expressing my true emotions will not be a problem to you again."

She turned to the window to hide her face. The venom in her mouth was threatening to spill from her eyes as tears; she had not meant to be neither so cruel nor so truthful.

"I am sorry. You know I did not mean that, you must know I did not." Lothíriel sunk onto the bed, her eyes devastated. "I do not want you to be unhappy, of course I do not. I do not want you to force or feign happiness on my count, you know that."

"I know that, Thiri, but I do not _see_ it." Lírien sat beside her, and the Queen grabbed her hand.

"I know it does not seem as such, but I love you and want you to remain here. I understand that makes me selfish, I am sorry. I am not being a very good friend now, I know, but what would I do were I alone here?"

"You never will be," Lírien promised her, though she was thinking not of herself but of Éomer and Eadwine and Wyverun who would be pillars by the queen.

The two women hugged, and the Lothíriel stood.

"I must be going back. Will you be fine?"

"Yes, of course."

And so the Queen left, and Lírien walked to her mirror and let her hair down. It parted to the left, falling in smooth waves and curls, framing her face well. It's slight darkness was a contrast to the pallor of her skin, which the cold Rohan sun had not altered. With her hair down, heavy around her face, he eyes seemed brighter and her lashes fuller, her lips more plump and a softer pink, her cheeks higher and her nose a straighter line.

In no country was she beautiful; but at least in Gondor she was passable as such; here her features were to soft and pointed to be considered truly attractive.

She pulled her hair back again, securing it with a brooch in the shape of swans. An heirloom from her late betrothed, Boromir. There had been no great love between them; his mind was with the war and her's with the sea, and both years and miles stood between them. But a friendship has formed and Lírien knew she would not be unhappy married to him. He would always bring her little things when they visited, or send them in letters.

Lírien was overwhelmed by a desire to write to him. She used to do so monthly, putting in ink her concerns and her hopes and her life and the mistakes she knew she made. And he would write back chastising her for doing something petty and silly and then comforting her with knowledge that she could make up for her faults. She wrote once about the way she won arguments; he told her he found it deplorable, but it would serve her well in the court.

His disappointment, however far removed it was, still made her flush with shame. She had torn her friends heart out so that she could twist it to her own will, and was as angry and upset with herself as she knew Boromir would have been. But what could she do? She could not turn back the flow of time and make it so that she had not said the things she did.

She sat at her mirror for some time, trying to justify her actions to herself while knowing she could not. She did not notice anything beyond her own reflection, and even that image seemed altered somehow. So when she stood and turned back to the waking world, she was surprised to see a wreath on her window sill, beside the one which had been eaten.

It was not an elegant one, simply a few field flowers and twigs, thin and somewhat pathetic. But a a gift, however small, gen to one who does not deserve it can bring a smile to that person's face, and so Lírien resolved to go down to the stables the following morning.

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**Please, please review! Especially if you added this story to your alerts/favorites. I also know many of you may not be to fond of Lírien following this; keep in mind one of my goals is to avoid Mary Sues. Lírien has flaws, and they aren't tiny inconsequential ones**


	3. The Lingering of Emotions

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

**Title:** The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

**Summary:** Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

**Genre:** Romance, drama, some comedy

**Rating:** T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

Other Warnings: OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

**Notes:** Thank you for the reviews! Sorry for the wait.

**The Lady Doth Protest Too Much**

Chapter Three

The Lingering of Emotions

The stables smelled of hay and manure and sweat, and Lírien was glad she had dusted some rosemary powder beneath her nose before leaving her room. It was not enough to overpower the stench, but enough to fool her into thinking she may have lessened it. And if there was one art at which Lírien was proficient, it was convincing herself or inoffensive lies.

She did not know what she would do or say when she arrived, though she had spent her night awake in thought of that matter; few things confused her as much as this rider. She knew not his face, only his voice, his horse, and the well-defined shape of his leg. And yet he had carried out a pleasant conversation with her, and left her a wreath, and been far to kind for it to not be suspicious. In part, her curiosity served as a justification for coming down here, breeches under her skirts and hair braided. She had even worn the riding boots Amrothos had gifted her with, though she was not sure she would find the horse, let alone its rider.

Th stables were mercifully empty; only one or two riders were there, grooming their horses. A stable boy was mucking a stall. They gave her an odd look but said nothing; the Rohirrim were not fond of useless, needless chatter. If she needed help she would ask and if she wished to share personal information, she would, so there was no need to broach either topic with her. The horses, however, were what intimidated Lírien. Either side of the stable was lined with the large beasts, their eyes following her with a weary curiosity.

_Do not be foolish. Horses eye's do not follow _anyone _with weary curiosity, least of all you!_ She told herself, trying to stop the slight quake in her knees. But there was something about the creatures, however majestic they were, that frightened her. They were large and string and could easily trample her on a whim. They could not speak and she could not judge their emotion's, and so to her they were unpredictable. And their eyes... there was something very human about a horses eyes. Lírien did not like the feel of them.

She stopped before a horse who was only recently ridden; his saddle was still on and his mane was matted with sweat. But it was familiar; white, speckled, and with teeth suited for eating wreaths. This was the riders horse.

She looked around; the Rohirrim cared a great deal for their horses, and so she could not imagine one leaving theirs in such an uncomfortable-looking get-up for any length of time. So the rider, whom this horse was apparently in possession of, had to be one of the men in the stable.

He could not be the stable _boy_; she could tell that the voice belonged to a man, and besides, his legs were to slim. He could possibly be the man with curls that seemed to fall into his eyes, but that man was caring for another horse, and so it was likely _not_ him. The same could be said for the man with the scars along his jaw. Which left only one candidate, the man who moments ago had been rummaging around near the entrance... but where was he now?

"You have properly identified a horse, I see. Perhaps riding is not to far a dream for you."

Lírien somehow kept from the rather unladylike habit of starting like a shocked rabbit. Instead, she turned around, only to come face-to-chest with a rider. Her neck began to heat at the proximity of this man; surely it was improper? And so was the way she was appreciating how he smelt of cedar wood and grass beneath the slight stink of sweat, for that matter.

She took a small step back, but was cornered against the stall. Thankfully, he mirrored her movement, so that he was far enough from her that she had no need to strain her neck to see him.

His hair was blond, of course, and fell in waved to his shoulders, matted at his forehead with sweat. His eyes were dark blue and squinted, with a few laugh-lines around the edges. His nose was straight, and his lips were thin and pink. His beard was well-groomed, short and full. Yet despite this odd combination of features, she found him attractive. He was not like Amrothos or any other of Lothíriel's brothers, whose hair or eyes she wished _she_ could have as her own; his features were... _manly,_ well-cut. And appealing to Lírien in a way she had not expected.

He seemed to be studying her, as well, though without a trace of shame or subtlety; his eyes openly roamed her face, her neck, her figure... she felt her cheeks turn pink. He seemed, at least, pleased with what he saw.

"The question was never with identifying horses. It was with riding them." The lack of a quaver in her own voice surprised her. He chuckled, and only then was Lírien positive it was him.

He stepped by her then, to his horse, and entered the rather spacious stall. He pulled an apple from his pocket and began feeding it to Swifthoof.

"But riding a horse begins with being familiar with one." he seemed so utterly calm around the beast. It was as if he were dealing with another human and not something so very animal and strange.

"I would think that familiarity with one's teacher is also rather important... Pardon me, but well I know _you_, in the most bare sense of that word, I do not know your name."

The rider smiled at her.

"I am Éothain, an officer in the Kings army, and a member of his personal guard. And now that I have told you my name and title, might you grace me with yours?"

"I am Lírien, a lady in waiting of Queen Lothíriel, a representative of Dol Amroth."

"I should have known; there is, after all, only one person in court from that city who is not the Queen herself. And she has caused quite the ruckus."

A stone settled itself in her stomach.

"Oh?" her voice was an octave to high, and her eyes glanced down. She could just make out the tip of her riding boot.

"That she cannot dance to a Rohirric tune worth two pence, and that she is not much fond of spiders, mostly," he told her with a grin, "of course, women are women, and women _will_ talk. I expect that mot many of their rumors are true, or in the cases where they are, as bad as they seem to be when coming from the hornet's mouth."

"But if they are?" the question left her lips before she thought to stop it.

"Then I will discover that soon enough. I do not think an inherent and irreversible dislike of Rohan will be difficult to notice."

"Then, sir, you grant me more kindness than many would think I deserve." it was refreshing, to speak the truth so openly to this man. Though part of her felt as if she were merely taking refuge in audacity; playing so well off of him that he could not tell it was no game. Then again, should he turn on her upon discovering the true nature of her character, he could not say she had not given him fair warning.

"I tend to disagree with the masses."

He unsaddled the horse, and began to brush it down.

"I do not believe you should ride today," he said, "You are to uneasy around horses to be comfortable atop one."

"then what do you intend to do with me?" she blushed, realizing suddenly how easily that could be misunderstood. Éothain caught it as well, smirking, but keeping his eyes on his horse. "I told my Ladies Maid to not bother with brunch, expecting I would be out. Should I return now, it may raise some questions." she said quickly.

"And you cannot simply say you were here?"

"Here? Alone in the stables with a man who,, until moments ago, was a stranger? Oh, yes, why _not_ throw another of my bones to the ladies so that they will have something to gnaw on?"

"I jest, My lady. If I were to send you back now, it would do nothing to improve your behavior around horses."

"So what am I to do?" she was careful this time, but he must have caught the parallel as he smirked again.

Then he tossed her the brush, which she caught clumsily and fumbled with, much to his amusement.

"You are going to help."

She stood, rooted to the spot, dumbfounded.

He sighed and pulled her over to him with one reach of his long arm. Her cheeks seared.

"It is not difficult. You simply stroke from her head down."

She glanced up at him, biting her lip.

"so just..." she did not know what she was asking. Thankfully, Éothain seemed to.

"do not worry, just begin. You will know if something goes wrong."

"I would rather it did not go wrong in the first place," she grumbled. But she tried.

It really was not difficult, once she realized that Swifthoof had no plan to rear up and stomp her to death. It was not, however, easy to remain calm, between the horse in front of her and the rider behind her. The rider was the more distracting of the two, but for all the wrong reasons; she kept on fantasizing that he would step closed, take her hand, and show her in a more physical way how she was meant to do this. It was a truly inappropriate thought for her to be having, and she was very much ashamed with herself.

She stiffed a sigh; what had she gotten herself into?

**Please review! Every review is hugely appreciated!**


	4. The Goodness of Baths

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

**Title:** The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

**Summary:** Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

**Genre:** Romance, drama, some comedy

**Rating:** T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

Other Warnings: OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

**Notes:** Thank you for the reviews!

**The Lady Doth Protest Too Much**

Chapter Four

The Goodness of Baths

Lírien submerged her head beneath the cool water of the tub. Her hair floated upwards, and the bubbles from her breath tickled her cheeks as they, too, sought the surface. She could almost feel the grime and dirt lifting off of her skin, and she kept her head underwater for as long as she could. When she emerged, she was thinking much more clearly.

To say that her morning had been _unusual_ would have been an understatement in the grossest sense of the word. She had never spent so much time alone with a man who could not be considered a suitable chaperone; he was unmarried and of no relation to her. Nor had she ever cared for horses or even gone down to the stables at all. And she _certainly_ never allowed herself to get sweaty and grimy and filthy. And yet she had done all of these together.

Her unease had been practically tangible, of course. Between the horses and Éothain, she felt as if she were tiptoeing all morning. The horses and the fear they caused had been the worse of the two, but she could not deny that the rider had an... _unsettling_ effect on her. Of course, any man as appealing as him would have garnered _some_ reaction; she was at an age when her body expected to bear children, and responded to men accordingly. But this had seemed... _amplified_ with Éothain, to say the least.

It was as if with every step he took, the air he had displaces floated over to her, ripe with his presence, pressing into her skin. Her body had responded rather profoundly, so much so that she had not been at all calm or settled until she sank into the bath water; even after she left the stables and her nerves from the horses had subsided, her nerves from _him_ were still tingling in a most inappropriate way.

She sighed; he emotions were being absolutely absurd. She had not, since their first encounter, come within a foot of him, and yet it had been as though their bodies were pressed together- she halted that thought, distracting herself with washing out her hair. _There were certain things a lady should not be thinking of when naked and in a tub_, she reprimanded herself. _Of course,_ asked a small voice in the very back of her mind, _when else would you think of them_?

She silenced that voice quickly. It was clearly lacking in common sense.

But regardless of the rider's physical presence, she had been surprised to find that he was quite an easy conversationalist. He spoke at first of horses, but seemed to be able to slip in other topics of conversation until he was delivering a discourse on the importance of always making sure one's mother is happy, so that she does not march over to the soldiers quarters to box you over the ears in front of your entire Éored for some great mistake you have made- it was something he had much experience with.

The conversation had been mostly one-sided, though she did occasionally respond to a question or share a small anecdote of her own, she was surprisingly content to hear him speak. His voice was the odd mixture of gruff and smooth that had endeared him to her before she even knew his face, and he was never dull. He was, however, very Rohirric when it came to speaking. She told him as much.

"And what do you mean by that?" he had asked, not affronted or flattered, merely curious.

"Only that you do not add words when you do not feel that they are necessary, even when telling a story. You say what happened and your own opinion comes through mostly in your tone and framing of whatever it is you are saying. Yet simultaneously, you do not mince words or offer less than your opinion."

He laughed.

"And I see you are the opposite."

"How so?"

"Could you not have just now said _You say only what you feel needs saying_?"

"I suppose. But should I not elaborate, there would be much room for misunderstanding."

"And a misunderstanding would certainly be a terrible fate to subject one's self to." he was raising an eyebrow skeptically.

"Depending on the misunderstanding, it very well could be."

He chuckled and shook his head.

"Then I will be careful, from now on, to not say anything that could have a double meaning or be easily mistaken for something else."

He did not seem to make good on his words. If anything, he began to take joy in slipping in cryptic comments simply to annoy her.

Still, she had not left until it was nearing time for lunch, and she knew she would have to bathe before eating, so she wound up in the woman's bathing quarters, scrubbing away at her skin, trying to purify it from the essence of both horse and man. Cleanliness was the marker of good upbringing, and she took care to wash herself until she felt her skin burning from the rough towel.

There was a tap from the doorway.

"Miss? Lunch'll be ready in 'bout an hour. Are you almost done with your bath?"

"Almost, Mildred. Could you fetch me my towel?"

The curly-haired girl nodded and scuttled off. Lírien sighed and rinsed herself one last time before standing, wringing out her hair and stepping out of the tub. Her fingers were wrinkled already; she must have been in for longer than she thought.

Mildred returned and handed her the soft towel, bowing a little and then rushing to have her clothing ready by the time she had dried. Lírien did not understand the rush; bathing was meant to be luxurious and relaxing, a time to contemplate and think, to clean the mind and the body. Not to be hurried around as if a clock were hanging right by your ear.

She took he time dressing, as one had to in summer; with only a single shift, and a light dress a top, one had to be careful that everything fit properly. Her dress was one from Dol Amroth, as well, so she was delicate with the silky, gray fabric.

By the time she had dressed, powdered, and twisted her hair into a knot, lunch was almost on the table, and she hurried herself just slightly. She was eating with the Queen in her chambers today, which meant she had best be on time. As it was, she arrived after Eadwine, Wyverun, and Brìd had shown up, and they each gave her cold glances as she was forced into he seat farthest from Lothíriel.

"I am so glad you are all here!" the Queen chirped, grinning at them all. Her skin seemed to be glowing and her eyes were bright. "I have excellent new, and I wished to share it with you four in particular." her eyes turned directly to Lírien as she spoke the next words; "I am with child!"

somehow, she world seemed to drop from beneath Lírien's feet, and she fell congratulating her friend, rather than screaming.

**Please review! It's easy, simply, and makes me love you with a burning passion!**


	5. The Anger of Ladies

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

**Title:** The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

**Summary:** Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

**Genre:** Romance, drama, some comedy

**Rating:** T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

Other Warnings: OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

**Notes:** Thank you for the reviews!

**The Lady Doth Protest Too Much**

Chapter Five

The Anger of Ladies

Lírien wrote to Amrothos, Erchirion, and Elphir at the Queen's request, fuming inwardly; not even the day she had to process the request had lessened her anger over it.

She had no siblings, and so perhaps she was not as well versed in the delicate connections of brothers and sisters, and in any other case she would have locked her opinions in a box and ignored them, as they had no business in the affairs of things she did not understand. But as a close personal friend of both the brother _and_ sister in question, she would allow herself the many angry thoughts flooding through her brain.

_When a girl is pregnant_, she though, _it does not matter how busy they are, they write to their family themselves!_

However many preparations she needed to make for the festivities, or however many health needs she had to tend to, surely writing three letters to her brothers was not more than she could feasibly manage! Especially when they where such god brothers to _her_.

Lírien had needed to bite back her tongue to keep from giving her friend a good, long, and stinging speech about remembering where one came from. But as she had been given this task in the presence of others, she had held back. Besides, it had been preceded by a heartfelt speech about some sewing of blankets, a Rohirric custom all women present had been asked to take part in, and Lírien knew she would only seem like a creature of Sauron had she made a fuss.

_Dear friends_, she wrote, allowing the venom in her mind to spill onto the parchment. She had always felt that her feelings were safe with Lothíriel's brothers; her worried over marrying Boromir, her jealousy of that stupid girl from Lebennin who had prettier clothing than she owned, her grief over leaving Dol Amroth. They would understand how indignant she felt at being tasked to write to them in their sisters stead, and at their sister not doing this herself.

Her letter resulted in being six pages long, packed very full of her own thoughts, and containing only three lines at the top about the child's conception.

She then marched to Lothíriel's room to ensure that she wanted it sent.

To say the queen was surprised at the anger of her friend's face would be to not say quite the full extent of things.

"If you wrote six pages, how can I conceivably read them all?" she asked, frowning.

"By taking a break from planning to read the words announcing_ that you are with child_ to your _brothers_." the lack of control in her voice surprised her. In arguments, one was always meant to remain in control of themselves in order to remain in control f the situation. It was an art she had mastered, and only lost when she was in a truly furious state of mind.

"Lírien, I do not understand why you are so angry with me. I spoke carefully with Eadwine and she said that since you were so close with them, and I had so much to do, it was only reasonable that you write the letter. After all, I don't want to disappoint my court. I though you would surely send my regards-"

Lírien tossed the letter harshly onto the floor.

"I suggest you read over _your_ regards, Your Grace, and see if you ever again want them set in ink by my hand!"

She then whirled out of the room, a new target in her mind's eye.

She found Eadwine easily, tittering in the main hall with a few other girls, clearly thrilled that she was in the Queens favor.

Lírien resisted the urge to slap her, settling for slamming her hands down on the table across from her, and shelling out a piece of her mind in a tone so menacing it did not sound like herself.

"Listen now, Eadwine, for I will warn you only once. I do not care that you are trying to stomp the Gondorian blood out of the Queen's veins, for I know it will always be there. I do not care that you are trying to tear her from her brothers, for I know they will always love her. What I _do_ care about is how _stupid_ you are. Did you think it a crafty plan? Did you truly and honestly believe that severing her ties to her brothers will sever her ties to Gondor? Have some pride and be a little more clever than that! If you try a trick as underhanded as this one again, I will tell the Lords of Dol Amroth myself about it, and on that day, you will understand why this is a warning."

Before Eadwine or her gaggle of friends could respond, while the shock as still fresh on their face, Lírien stormed out of the hall and into the open air of Edoras.

**O**

**Please review!**

**I know this chapter is not as eloquent as the others have been,, and is rather shorter but it is an angry chapter, and a necessary one.**

**And for future reference, that s about as badass as Lírien ever gets.**


	6. The Streets of Edoras

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

**Title:** The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

**Summary:** Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

**Genre:** Romance, drama, some comedy

**Rating:** T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

Other Warnings: OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

**Notes:** Thank you for the reviews!

**The Lady Doth Protest Too Much**

Chapter Six

The Streets of Edoras

Had Lírien thought of life as a poem or a song, she would have read more deeply into the small coincidences around her. She would have seen more significance in that Boromir signed his last letter to her with _goodbye_ and not his more typical _I hope to write again soon_. She would have marveled at the symbolism that she saw a shooting star on the night the armies marched back from the Black Gates. And she certainly would have spied something prophetic in that the first person she came across once she had sufficiently calmed herself was Éothain.

"What has you so bothered?" he asked after she had- quite literally- ran into him, her nose colliding with his forearm. He truly was unreasonably tall, and she unfairly short.

"Good day to you as well, Éothain," she grumbled, forgetting to be a well-mannered Lady in the wake of her anger. Thankfully, Éothain did not seem to mind; if anything, the quirk of one brow and tilt of his lips showed amusement as she rubbed her nose.

"Forgive me for forgetting my manners, but you seem upset."

Lírien sighed. She knew her conduct in Meduseld had been out-of-place; she had set up a whole new set of traps she would need to crawl through, both with the Court and its Queen. But the sons of Prince Imrahil were good to her, and she hated every slight against them, even an unintentional one by their sister, who was both to kind and to easily controlled.

"I fear I have done something that, well I feel was right, was not proper nor beneficiary to me."

"I doubt that what is right is truly not beneficiary to anyone. Were that the case, you would not have done it."

"I suppose," she said cautiously, "that it has helped the Queen's brothers, but it has made matters for me all the worse."

Éothain observed her then; not in the way he had in the stables the day prior, when his eyes seemed to be eating her figure, but staring as if she were a puzzle, one he knew the answer to and yet did not quite know how to make sense of. It unnerved her, as his blue eyes seemed to... _penetrate_ her skin, to look beyond her surface and see the wheels of her mind turning.

"If you have done something to help those you care for at your own risk, then it surely must have been worth whatever you will suffer." he paused, and his face broke into a grin, "So, which of the Queen's brothers is your sweetheart?"

Lírien almost choked on air itself.

"Sir, I do not know how you came to such a conclusion, but I beg of you to think before you say such ridiculous things!"

Though she was considering marrying Amrothos, she always knew it would have been the same as things had been with Boromir; no passionate love, simply friendship, and perhaps carnal lust, though once a sufficient amount of children were born, he would frequent a mistress for his needs and she, like a good lady, would ignore hers. The marriage would have been that of friendship and comradeship, of being together but not being _one_. Lírien always knew she was a woman destined to never have a sweetheart.

"Have I guessed wrong?"

"Very much so! I have no sweetheart, nor anything of the like, and were I to somehow find one, it certainly would not be Elphir, Erchirion, or Amrothos."

Éothain seemed pleased with this answer, and Lírien wondered for a moment of girlish foolishness, if he had mistaken one of them for her lover after all.

"Well, I think a walk will do you some good in forgetting about whatever this affair was- or at least, calming down from it, as I would like to hear what has a lady such as yourself so upset."

Lírien hesitated; her upbringing told her that a Lady should not wander off with a young man who was no of relation to her, especially alone. But rules were somewhat less rigid in Rohan, and her instinct told her that this man would not cause her harm or embarrassment, and she _did_ want a third and fourth ear to hear her problems and another tongue to put another's thoughts into words.

"I must be back soon- we will not be going far?"

He grinned wickedly at her, and for a moment her heart stopped.

"Do not worry, I will only show you the city as we talk."

Éothain had already proven himself a good talker. But she found, as they bypassed soldiers and maidservants moving from their quarters to the Hall, that he was a good listener as well, so much so that she hardly noticed she was talking to one who was not herself.

"I know of course, she is of Rohan now, but would it do her so much harm to at least _remember_ she is a princess of Dol Amroth?" Lírien finished, having talked until her mouth went dry.

"It might," was all Éothain said at first, until the girl's head whipped up with eyes demanding her explain himself. He really was too Rohirric in speech. "All I mean," he said, "is that not embracing the culture of a land one rules can displease the people, especially those who wanted the king to marry their daughters or sisters."

"I am not asking her not to embrace Rohan, merely not to lock out all that is Gondor." _merely not to lock out all that is me_ she added silently, though he seemed to realize the meaning without having to hear her voice utter it.

"Perhaps that is why you cling to Gondor so tightly," he mused, stopping by a peddler's cart that was selling flowers, "because you feel someone must."

"We are not discussing me. We are discussing the absurdity of not writing to one's own brothers."

"That, I will admit, is extreme, and the workings of a very tricky woman. My point still stands."

Lírien did not know how to respond to that, so she did not. Instead, she looked at the flowers in the cart; an oddly silver flower in particular caught her eye.

"That," Éothain said, "Is Starweed. It is more common up north, but for some reason, we get plenty of it around the city in the summer."

"It is very pretty. We have something similar in Dol Amroth, but the leaves are rounder, and the waves usually displace any that manage to grow before they can really take root."

"Do you have interest in flowers?"

She shook her head, smiling.

"I think they are lovely, but other than rosemary and honeysuckle, I do no especially love them."

"What _do_ you have interest in?" he asked, leading her from the cart and further down the street, where women were gossiping over small fences, men were carrying various sacks and barrels, and children were running through the mud, curls flying behind them wildly.

"I always loved the sea, I suppose. And the harp, and song."

He chuckled.

"You truly belong in Dol Amroth, you know that?"

"All to well."

He sighed, and perhaps she was mistaken, but she thought she heard something sad in it.

"I would love to hear you sing, someday, Lady Lírien. But before then, we should return you to the Hall. The sun will soon begin to set."

And, dreading every heavy fall of her feet, Lírien began to walk back towards the scene of her crime.

**0**

**Please review!**

**So, a chapter pretty heavy on Lírien/Éothain, and I believe the longest to date, save perhaps the first chapter.**

**This is probably the fastest update that will happen, especially since I am almost done drafting and developing two projects I am working on; one a one-shot series about Eldarion's life that will be wrapped up in about eight chapters, and the other a 'brother-fic' of sorts to this one about Erchirion that I will begin uploading once the stuff in that fic will no longer count as spoilers for this one. So that point of that tangent boils down to this; updates will slow a bit.**


	7. The Misery of Company

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

**Title:** The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

**Summary:** Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

**Genre:** Romance, drama, some comedy

**Rating:** T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

Other Warnings: OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

**Notes:** Thank you for the reviews!

**The Lady Doth Protest Too Much**

Chapter Seven

The Misery of Company

A feast was held to celebrate the conception of an heir on the second night after the Queen told her close friends she was with child. It was festive and bright, in the great Hal of Meduseld, with every lord and lady in attendance, as well as anyone else the royals thought to invite.

Lírien despised it of course. She was still out of favor with the Queen, her only solace in that was the small detail that Eadwine was, as well. To make matters all the worse, news of her outburst had estranged her further from the court; while many guard members and a few of the less popular lords thought that Eadwine had been in need of a good smack, or simply would have done the same in Lírien's place, had become somewhat more fond of her, they were the minority in court and had very little sway. The majority of her company despised her more strongly than before, if anything.

And so during the feast, she sat at a table with a few people who were important enough to sit near the King and Queen but not beside them, and sipped her wine, delighting only in that Eadwine was much further from the Royal table than she herself was. Beside her sat Elfhelm's near girl of a wife, Cynewyn, with her pale brown hair and large eyes, and a soldier with far to many curls on his head, who was one of the few that had approved of Lírien's behavior the prior day. He had not expressed it openly, but had nodded at her when she returned to the hall the night before, a smirk on his lips.

None of the table's occupants seemed to be conversationalists. Cynewyn was the only one on good speaking terms with anyone else, and she was busy sending rather unfriendly looks to the busty women who kept intercepting her husband on his way back to the table. Lírien was glad for the silence; it gave her time to inwardly fume.

Lothíriel had given her a lecture that, in essence, told her she could not yell at the Queen of Rohan any more than she could yell at the Queen of Gondor. Her remark that _she had been attempting to speak to a friend, not a Queen_, had received no answer.

And now, like a petulant, misbehaving child, she was seated at another table. What sort of person was Lothíriel? She had asked Lírien to stay in Rohan as a friend, but only acted as a queen. She expected Lírien to accept the same treatment she would have accepted for a friend, but not _from_ a friend. It was entirely hypocritical and Lírien did not know why she stood for it, why she did not simply write to her father and Amrothos now and arrange to return home.

Of course, should she do that, it was very likely that Lothíriel would no longer consider the two friends, a thought which, even in her anger, felt like a stone in her gut. Even during their worst fights, when their anger seemed to have boiled over itself, they never had _not_ been friends; in fact, Lírien could not think of any other companion of hers who had not abandoned her at some point; when she did something cruel or made eyes at one of their brothers or wore the same shade of yellow- she had not done anything of the sort concerning Lothíriel, of course, but she suspected that, if she had, the girl would not have minded.

Lírien was extremely impressed with herself when she reacted with only mild shock to the tap on her shoulder. In the same moment she registered it had, in fact, occurred, and was not a simple figment of her imagination, she knew who it was.

"Lady Lírien," Éothain said, smiling down at her, his beard neatly groomed and his eyes crinkled by his smile. He really was quite handsome, particularly in the green and gold he wore.

"Sir Éothain," she greeted in return.

As if some great commotion was taking place, the table turned their eyes to the pair. Lírien knew this, but chose instead to focus on the Knight who stood by her, grinning.

"You look lovely this evening."

"Thank you, Sir. You are too kind." though her words would have been stiff and overly polite, she spoke them with a smile and a hint of humor in her voice. The effect was odd; she did not sound as she usually did, but rather... accessible. It seemed that, when in the rider's presence, she became open, a thought that discomforted her.

"I am being only as kind as you deserve. But I must confess, I did not come here to compliment you, I came to ask you for a dance."

That almost sent her eyebrows into her hair with shock.

"I am afraid I am an awful dancer, I would only slow you down, and-"

"And _I_ am afraid that I must insist on this, My lady. It is a slow dance, and I will teach you."

Very much aware of several blue eyes trained on her, Lírien accepted his hand and followed him onto the cleared center of the hall, where other couples were beginning to line up. She tried her hardest to ignore the warmth radiating from his hand on her waist, or the pleasant roughness of his palm, clasped in her own, or the way his eyes seemed to be drinking her in.

But her attempts turned to dust when the music struck up and he began gently guiding her across the floor. The steps were fairly easy, a simple crossing and recrossing of the feet, and Éothain's hand guided her hips so that she knew where to turn with each swell of music. Though she stumbled quite a bit more than she would like to admit, she eventually managed to make it through several rounds of the repetitive movements without error.

Though they could make no conversation during the dance, Lírien found that it still felt as the previous day in the market had; it put her at ease, quite simply, to be near him. And that in itself unnerved her and made her wish she were more secure in herself when near him.

She was almost sorry when the music ended and they parted. She was doubly sorry when a man stepped up to request the next dance, for she knew she would have to take another turn; one did not refuse the King of Rohan's offer to dance.

Thankfully it was a Gondorian tune, and so Lírien did not stumble; this meant, however, that Éomer was free to speak as he pleased and not risk causing her physical harm.

"The Queen," he said, "seated you where she did due to a fear that you did not wish to speak to her." Rohirrim might to well to add a few words to what it is they wish to say, Lírien thought.

"She thinks _I_ am upset with _her_?"

"You did throw a letter to her before storming out of her chambers."

Lírien liked Éomer; he was wise and kind and, most of all, made her friend happy. But the two had never been good friends, of even much friends at all, and Lírien was surprised that she did not stammer.

"And then she lectured me as if I were a chambermaid who left a soggy towel on her bed."

Éomer sighed.

"She is afraid, Lírien. She is desperately tying to find her footing in this court."

"And yet even I know that friends are not stepping-stones."

Éomer raised a skeptic brow at her, and Lírien found herself, for the first time in her life, glaring at a King.

"Your Majesty, I will not lie and say I have never used a friend to some means. I am, by my nature, manipulative, and it has not always served my morals well. But I see a clear difference between playing on the emotions of another to avoid trouble, and using another's influence to hoist one's self up, or better one's self at the expense of others. And if you do not see that difference, then you are the one I worry for."

For a moment, Lírien was sure she was to be exiled. The king, however, did something which surprised her more.

He laughed.

"I see now, why Imrahil said you were a good friend to Lothíriel. Whatever else happens, you will defend her, no?"

Moving beyond the shock that Imrahil had spoken of her to the king, and that said King had not just had her beheaded, she managed to formulate a response.

"You are only slightly wrong- I will never allow things to get so far that she would need any defenses."

The King smiled.

"Then I will never be fighting alone."

The dance ended, and Lírien looked up to Lothíriel.

"I believe," sad the King, "That my wife wishes to have a word with you."

**000**

**Pleas leave a review telling me what you think!**

**Not much of Éothain in this chapter, but next chapter is pretty ripe with him.**


	8. The Beauty of Song

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Lord of the Rings. All rights reserved to Tolkien enterprise.

**Title:** The Lady Doth Protest Too Much

**Summary:** Lírien did not wish to move to Rohan, and the Rohirrim certainly didn't wish to have her. But it seems now that the one man who embodies everything she hates may be the one to make her love it.

**Genre:** Romance, drama, some comedy

**Rating:** T for strong language, allusions to violence, and sexual situations.

Other Warnings: OC-centric, NOT a Mary Sue. OC/Minor canon character.

**Notes:** Thank you for the reviews!

**The Lady Doth Protest Too Much**

Chapter Eight

The Beauty of Song

"You called on me, your majesty?"

Lothíriel looked up to her friend with a smile lighting her face, bright and shinning, as if they had never fallen out at all. She was most likely one of those women who pregnancy enhanced; the sort who glowed and grinned and felt awake and mobile.

"Yes. I- well, I wanted to make sure you weren't upset."

"I am not." Lírien was not in a talkative mood; she rarely was. But she felt that speaking of personal matters in public was not good form and entirely impolite, and besides, she did not want to risk losing her composure. A woman only really had as much as she could control, and Lírien was careful to always have everything.

"I am glad." The Queen hesitated, as if rolling an idea around in her head and testing it out, saying it in different ways to find a wording that suited it, "Say, you know how to play the child's blessing, do you not?"

"I do." Lírien knew where her friend's thoughts were trailing, and dreaded it. The child's blessing was an ancient tradition of Dol Amroth, a song celebrating youth and warding off its dangers. It was song at any occasion to do with children, and Lírien suspected the Queen herself could sing it, should she chose.

"Would you sing it, please? I know you do not like performing much, but it would mean a great deal to me, and your voice is so lovely..." Lothíriel's eyes were pleading, as they had been when she requested Lírien join her in Rohan.

Lírien sighed. She could not deny this request to a Queen or to a friend.

"I will need a harp."

The minstrels were glad for a moment of repose, and though the man who played the harp only lent it to Lírien begrudgingly, she found that it was not overly large for her to play. It was not a particularly good harp, but she would be able to both sing and play and that is what mattered to her. One she was situated, the Queen quickly introduced her, and it seemed that the audience became intrigued merely by the excitement of their ruler.

Once she began playing, the world faded to Lírien. She saw her fingers moving along the instrument, and heard her high, airy voice, and marveled at the volume the hall allowed her to reach, but otherwise was unaware. The words were simple, but held memories; learning the song with a group of five others, none of whom with voices as pretty as her own; dancing with Amrothos the day after Lady Nimhel gave birth, him always stepping on her toes; Her and Lothíriel discussing their weddings and children that had not yet come. It was a happy song, and it reminded her of the suddenly scarce happy moment in her life.

When she finished her song, there was applause; some light, clearly only given out of courtesy, but some genuine and loud and exuberant. The latter came mostly from lords, and the royal couple especially. She bowed gracefully and left, opening the opportunity for several other well-wishers to take the stage with their poems and accolades and blessings. For her part, she returned to her table.

"That was a pretty song," Lady Cynewyn said, her curls bouncing as she turned to Lírien.

"Thank you."

"Elfhelm translated some of it for me. I think the words are lovely."

"I am glad you do. Though no one remembers who wrote it, it is sung often in Dol Amroth."

Cynewyn seemed like she was about to add something more, but her husband had just taken the stage to deliver some sort of blessing, and she turned to him instead.

"I must say, that was quite impressive." The voice came from behind Lírien, and she knew at once who it was.

"Thank you, sir Éothain."

he grinned and took the seat beside her- the curly-haired knight had wandered off to a table occupied by his friends, and seemed to be engaged in some sort of competition. Whatever it was, he must have lost, as he was asleep on the table and two beaded men were still pouring ale down their throats.

"Éothain," She said in a quiet voice, "I was wondering if you will be in any shape to go down to the stables tomorrow, or if I should wait a day?"

He grinned, and Lírien wondered if she need clarify the purpose of their trip.

"I will be in no shape to teach you to ride tomorrow, I fear, as I plan to challenge the winner of that contest over there" he jerked his hair to where the sleeping man lay, "after I have finished my discussion with you. The next day, however, will do well."

"Then I will see you then."

"I do look forwards to it."

**000**

**Sorry for the long wait and the short chapter, but I hope to soon begin uploading another fic and was working on outlining it. I will try to update once every two weeks from now on, but I make no promises.**

**If you like longer chapters and stories about Gondor, check out my next fic when I upload it.**

**Please review!**


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